


catch your breath

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [17]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Recovery, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), eventual spicykustard, kustard - Freeform, offscreen fellcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-21 10:52:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Sans has never been so sick of talking.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> detailed content warnings in the endnotes.

"Sans?" 

Sans wakes from black and clinging dreams to Papyrus's version of a whisper. The light from the doorway casts a shadow, which means that Sans can see his brother's hand hovering uncertainly above his shoulder. "Are you still napping?"

It would be so easy to just ignore him and stay here where it's warm and simple for a while. Papyrus would understand. Everybody would. He doesn't have to face this right now. He doesn't have to answer questions or talk. People get hurt when he talks.

Finally, Papyrus's hand makes gentle contact, resting on Sans's arm for a moment. Then he starts to get up, to leave Sans to be a miserable fuck as long as he wants.

Sans turns his head. His voice is rusty. "Nah, I'm up."

Even in the semi-dark, he sees Papyrus smile. "Well, good! You get the pleasure of my company for the day. Lady Toriel told me to stay home from work. She was quite firm about it. Do you want waffles?"

Undyne wasn't the one to teach Papyrus how to make waffles. They'll probably be edible. At this point, Sans would eat charcoal. He’s starving. He has been since Edge healed him, like his body has annoyingly decided to set all its various alarms louder now that he’s not busy dying. "Sounds great, bro."

"I already put some clean clothes in the bathroom for you," Papyrus says. "Consider this a firm yet gentle suggestion that you should shower. You’ll feel better when you don’t smell awful, I’m sure!”

The pain in his soul goes sharp again as soon as he sits up. It's nothing he can't manage but it sucks. He doesn't hide his wince as well as he should because Papyrus frowns at him. He waves it off. "S'fine. Just stiff. You’re right, the shower’ll help."

Yep. Two seconds in and he's already lying to his brother. This whole being awake thing is going so well.

"If you're sure," Papyrus says, in a tone that says he's not sure at all. "I can heal, you know! I’m very good at it."

"I dunno what's dirt and what's bruises right now," Sans says. "When I do, you can go full tilt boogie with the healing, okay?"

"Okay. Tilted boogying will be had," Papyrus says, mollified. He rubs his knuckles gently across Sans's skull. "Come down when you're finished."

He hesitates for a moment, at a loss, like he just realized that leaving the room means letting Sans out of his sight. Sans isn’t any happier about the idea, really. But unless he wants to cling to Papyrus like a backpack for the rest of their lives, which could make showering awkward, that bandaid’s gonna get ripped off sooner or later. He’s never been clingy. He’s not going to start now.

Apparently Papyrus comes to the same conclusion, because he nods sharply to himself, turns on his heel and leaves. Sans can hear his boots thundering on the steps like every morning he comes to drag Sans out of bed, comfortingly familiar.

He gets out of bed, grimacing at the skeleton-shaped outline of swamp muck and sweaty dust he’s left behind on the sheets, and shuffles to the bathroom, grabbing Red’s discarded jacket along the way. Might as well keep the laundry in one place, if the turtleneck and shorts can even be salvaged. Just like Papyrus promised, there are clean clothes folded up on the counter. No slippers, but a pair of battered sneakers he uses for formal occasions. There’s also a mirror, his reflection just waiting for him to meet his own eyes and read the guilt in his own expression. Joke’s on the judge. Avoidance is his favorite hobby.

As he raises Red’s jacket, its weight of pulls toward the left-hand pocket. The collar. He stops. Considers. He could just leave it there. Eventually, Red’ll want his jacket returned. Maybe if he just “accidentally” sends it back...

He thinks of the way it felt around his throat, Edge’s hands carefully redoing it as soon as they were safe. He remembers how protected he’d felt, how _relieved_ , even rationally knowing that he was still just as fucked as he was without it.

He doesn’t need it anymore. He doesn’t have to hold onto it like some fucked up souvenir. It’ll just be a bad memory, and he’s got enough of those on his own.

(He’d felt safe.)

He drops the jacket on the counter, the collar still in its pocket, and starts peeling off the rest of his clothes. Literally, since the remains of the turtleneck are plastered to him with sick sweat. It and the shorts are a total loss, not that he’s in any rush to wear them ever again. He skips the middleman and pitches them straight into the trash can.

His first trip into the shower lasts for about three seconds, as long as it takes for the first spray of hot water to hit his soul. He manages not to yelp but it’s close. He retreats, rigs up something with a hand-towel and duct tape to keep any water from hammering directly on his soul, and tries again. It’s better. Suck on that, Macgyver.

It’s the best shower of his life, his burning soul aside, hot water drumming down on him and drowning out the world. He considers the possibility of just refusing to leave. Nobody’s ever tried to kill him in the shower. Water bill might suck, though.

When the water finally runs clear, the last of the grime washed off him, it’s starting to get uncomfortably cold. Grudgingly, he turns it off and steps out of the shower. As he pulls the curtain aside, he catches sight of himself, although he thankfully avoids his own eyes. He looks like hell. There’s an ugly bruise around his throat and his arm from Unundyne’s hands. His soul has started to dim again. He’s gonna need another round of healing soon, which is a whole nother problem he’s not equipped to deal with right now. How does he start that convo, exactly? _Hey, edgelord, I know it was an emergency situation, but you wanna sign up to deal with my bullshit for the next few months so I can use you like a magic defibrillator?_

It’s been maybe twenty minutes since he dragged himself out of bed. He’s wrung out from a shower, let alone the other shit he’s got on his plate. He’s got calls to make, people to reassure that he’s not dead, an angry Red to deal with and maybe work tonight if he didn’t get fired while he was gone. It’s like a physical weight on his shoulders. He’s hurting like hell. He wants to crawl back under the covers and sleep for a year.

Instead he undoes the improvised bandage from his ribcage and puts fresh clothes on. They’re beaten soft from being washed a billion times and smell like detergent and home. He swallows against the knot in his throat because like hell is he gonna let last night’s crying jag set a precedent. He’s not crying over laundry or the fact that Papyrus probably made sure to grab his favorite shirt, the one with the NASA logo that he got when he took the kid (or maybe the kid took him) to the Smithsonian. He’s not _that_ broken.

When he’s dressed, sadly lacking his hoodie, he hesitates for a long moment. Stares down at the abandoned jacket and the collar hidden in its pocket.

Edge said it was his to keep. That it was a gift. Seems rude to give a gift back. Edge is a good guy. He did a lot for Sans, and he’s not made of Teflon as much as he likes to pretend. It’d hurt his feelings if Sans just left the collar in Red’s pocket like it was forgettable.

(It had helped, that intent radiating from the collar, all protective tenderness. He’d felt so naked without it.)

Moving fast before he does the smart thing and changes his mind, he pulls the collar out of the pocket and shoves it in his inventory. It’s totally his imagination but he can almost feel the weight of it resting in there with all his other crap. He’ll just… put it in a dresser drawer or something later. It’s fine.

With that (un)resolved, he heads downstairs. The dog is in the middle of the staircase, a furry little trip-hazard. It wags when it sees him, teeth parting to let its tongue dangle out, a doggy grin. He scratches the top of its head as he climbs over it. He can hear the sounds of breakfast industry happening in the kitchen, a clatter of bowls and pots and pans, and his brother’s voice. Now that he thinks Sans isn’t listening, Papyrus sounds tired.

“Not today, I think? He might need a teeny bit of time.” Pause. Sans thinks he hears Undyne on the other end of the line. Quickly, Papyrus says, “No, no, he’s fine! He’s just tired. And hurting. And eerily quiet. But I’m sure time and fraternal affection will fix him right up! Besides, we need to have a little chat about some things.”

Well, that’s ominous. And it’s about as much eavesdropping as Sans is comfortable with when it’s Papyrus. He deliberately steps harder on the next step so it makes noise.

“Yes,” Papyrus says loudly in a very different tone. “I would love to do yet more interminable wedding ring shopping for Alphys! Thank you for asking!”

There’s a cup of coffee on the kitchen table, steam rising from it in a slow ribbon. His brother is the best.

Sans drops into a chair at the table, curling his hands around the mug to warm them. His phone is on the table beside the coffee, fully charged. As he sits there looking at it, it buzzes with a new text message. The news of him being back is probably already spreading, considering that monsters exist on gossip as much as magic. Knowing he’ll probably regret it, he unlocks the phone to see how many people’s he got to deal with in the next few days, telling a sanitized lie over and over once he figures out what he’s supposed to say. 

His voicemail’s full. The phone stopped counting texts at 100. He wonders how many of them are from Papyrus trying over and over to reach him, getting increasingly desperate. He doesn’t really want to know.

The newest text is from Edge. It reads in perfectly correct punctuation, _I hope you’re well._

Kind of stiff. Then again, it’s hard to convey _hey, that traumatic bonding experience we just went through was wild, right? anyway, hope you’re not curled up in the fetal position under a table somewhere_ in a text.

Sans hesitates. Then he sends, _i’m ok. you?_

A minute for Edge to type before his answer comes. _I’m fine. If you need anything, call me. I’m here._

Like Edge hasn’t done enough. Asking Edge to keep healing his soul is the kind of thing he probably should do in person, so he texts, _thanks_ , and puts his phone down as Papyrus surges out of the kitchen with a plate. The waffle is sort of scorched in places, but it’s tough not to yank it protectively to his chest and wolf it down with his bare hands. 

He manages to use a fork like a semi-civilized person. The first bite has a helluva kick of intent to it, love and worry all wound together until it’s hard to tell one from the other. It’s gentler than Edge’s intent but the strength of it still catches Sans off guard. Suddenly he understands why the whole offering food thing is such a big fucking deal to Edge and Red.

Sans says, too quiet, “Thanks, Paps. It’s great.” Clears his throat and grins. “Batter than anything I’ve had in days.”

Papyrus blinks. Then he narrows his eyes, not even trying to hide his smile. “Well, that’s not much basis for comparison. It’s hardly a decision you have to waffle over. One might think you were trying to butter me up.”

Sans’s grin feels a little more genuine. “Too syrupy for you? Guess I gotta iron out my flattery.”

Papyrus scritches the top of his head. “Yes, well, that’s enough of that. Eat your waffle. If you’re still hungry, I have plenty to... fork over!”

It turns out that yes, Sans can eat four waffles. Papyrus doesn’t because apparently it’s early afternoon, an entirely inappropriate time for breakfast. Sans is pretty sure Papyrus just decided he needed the waffles more, but trying to tell him that diners tell waffles 24 hours a day doesn’t get him anywhere. Maybe it’s just that there’s not a whole lot Papyrus can do to fix this situation, and this one little thing he _can_ do makes him feel better about it. Either way, Sans eats the fucking waffles and feels a little more like an actual person afterwards.

When he’s done, Papyrus says, hovering in the kitchen door, “I can make more. Or we have casseroles? An excessive number of them? I’m not sure what constitutes an acceptable number, actually, but I think an entire refrigerator is past the casserole rubicon.”

“Nah, I’m good,” Sans says. He picks up his coffee and takes a deep drink. “C’mon, sit down.”

Papyrus sits on the edge of the chair, his hands folded. Now that the satisfaction of a job well-done is wearing off, he’s frowning again. “Did you eat at all while you were gone?”

“Yeah, I ate. But they’re kinda low on waffles over there.” A furrow appears in Papyrus’s brow as he reads between the lines and Sans keeps going, his voice light, “A waffle embargo. Anyway, you told Undyne we had some stuff to talk about.”

Papyrus sighs. “It’s very rude to listen into people’s conversations, brother. However, that is true, but it can wait a teeny bit longer if you’re not feeling up to it?”

Sans shrugs. He’s never going to feel up to it, but he can’t fall apart on Papyrus and expect him not to ask any questions. They’re good at avoiding hard conversations (Papyrus didn’t pick up many of Sans’s bad habits but he sure caught that one) but even they can’t talk around Sans disappearing for three days and coming back with dust on his hands. He can try to smooth some of the sharpest edges, edit a little, but he’s got to give Papyrus something. “It’s okay, dude. It’s not gonna kill me.”

Papyrus studies him doubtfully. Then he nods and says, “Why didn’t you tell me I died?”

Sans does not drop his coffee. It’s nothing so dramatic as that. He freezes for a second, his eyes blacking out, a flashing neon sign of his guilt. But judging from Papyrus’s expression, he didn’t need any confirmation. His eyes are sad but determined. He knew.

Sans could try to lie at this point. It’d only make things worse, but he could try and pretend his brother is a fucking idiot who can’t see right through him. It might buy him a few minutes. But he can’t make a convenient escape with a shortcut right now, and he’s busted anyway. It’s over. He swallows and puts the mug down. “Red told you about that, huh?”

Of course. It makes an awful sense, really. Everything else in Sans’s life got fucked up. Gaster, Edge’s universe, his soul. Why not this? Why fucking not? It’s hilarious but he sees the expression on Papyrus’s face and he can’t laugh at the big universal joke that is his life. Any self-pity withers away into shame.

“I found the photo,” Papyrus says. “Red brought it up from your lab along with the rest of your papers. When I asked him to explain, he did. He thought you’d already told me, seeing as that’s the rational and appropriate thing to do in the circumstances where you’re the only one who remembers a thing. He also told me about your soul and about that poor man who fell into the Core, Dr. G--”

“Don’t say his name,” Sans says. It’s sheer reflex, the words jerked out of him by force. 

Papyrus looks at him, frowning. “Why not?” 

“He…” Sans is very aware of all the shadows in the corners of the room, where the sunlight doesn’t reach. He has to turn and look at them, checking whether they’re empty, before he can finish his sentence. “He might be listening.”

Papyrus doesn’t seem to find that weird. “Oh, I see. As I said, eavesdropping is a little impolite. Particularly considering that Cherry seemed to think he was dead. Of course, I died and I’m listening to you right now, so perhaps that’s not so much of a problem as you’d think.”

“You didn’t die,” Sans says. “Not this you, anyway.”

“No, but other mes did,” Papyrus says. “Are. Will? Grammar wasn’t designed for this. Are you angry?”

Sans stares at him. “Why the hell would I be angry?”

“Because I died,” Papyrus says. “Is that why you didn’t tell me?”

“No,” Sans says. “No, that’s not...”

When he trails off, Papyrus asks, relentless, “Did you think I wouldn’t believe you? Because much more ridiculous things happen to us all the time. The human is already so odd, I can’t say this comes as a shock. Of course I’d believe you.”

Sans miserably shakes his head, gripping the mug. His hands are cold.

“What, then?” Irritably, Papyrus crosses his arms. “You had better not have been trying to do the protective older brother thing, because I’m a grown monster who’s more responsible than you, frankly. I’m not a babybones. I haven’t been for a very long time.”

“That wasn’t it either,” Sans says. “Fuck, Paps, I wasn’t trying to protect you. I knew you’d be okay if I told you the truth.”

That seems to mollify Papyrus a little. He leans back in his chair and says, in the tone that means he’s perfectly willing to sit here until the sun burns out or Sans cracks, whichever comes first, “Then why?”

It’s too hard to meet Papyrus’s eyes. Sans fixes his gaze on the relatively safe tabletop. He shouldn’t be as afraid sitting in his own kitchen with his brother as he was in Asgore’s chambers, waiting for the trident to scatter him into dust, but he is. He’s been terrified of this conversation for a year now.

“I didn’t want to deal with it,” Sans says finally. “I was ashamed, I guess.”

“I don’t see why,” Papyrus says. “You being secretive isn’t a brand new thing, brother. Killing the human, yes, all right, you could’ve handled that differently, but--”

“I let you die.” Saying it out loud, finally, is like ripping a bandaid off and taking the scab with it. It hurts, even though it’s not like Papyrus didn’t know. If he read the notes, he knows what Sans did or didn’t do. The words lay between them, bleeding.

“Did you miss the part where I said I’m not a babybones?” Papyrus says. There’s only the usual fond exasperation in his voice, like Sans just admitted to not washing his hoodie for two weeks instead of letting the kid kill his brother. “I made my choice, and it was the _right_ choice, and if I died doing the right thing--”

“Then you still fucking died,” Sans says, an edge to his voice. “I could’ve done something. I could’ve stopped you.”

“Sans, really,” Papyrus says. “When have you ever been able to convince me not to do a thing when I’ve made up my mind? There were times when offering them mercy worked, wasn’t there? It said so in the notes.”

“Yeah, but…” Sans pinches the top of his nasal aperture. “I could’ve stopped them, then. I could’ve fucking tried.”

“You don’t fight people!” A pause. “Well, all right, you do fight people, apparently, but things have to be truly desperate. You have one HP! If you decided to get involved, all that means is that you’d probably die instead!”

“Better me than you.”

A sudden, awful silence. Sans doesn’t want to raise his eyes and see the expression on Papyrus’s face. When Papyrus speaks, he sounds very careful. “Is that really what you think?”

Fuck. Sans waves a hand like honesty is something he can physically clear away. “That didn’t come out right. Forget it.”

“No,” Papyrus says. “I don’t think I will. That’s a very worrying thing for you to say.”

“Sorry,” Sans says. Add one more to the pile. Why not. He means it, but sorry ultimately isn’t gonna fix a damn thing. “I’m just tired, dude. And I’m a selfish bastard who doesn’t want to deal with outliving you. It’s not like that. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“Too late, I’m already worrying,” Papyrus says. “I can’t un-worry all these worries that I’m worrying. I think… well, I was thinking this already because of what Cherry said about your soul, but I think you should see a doctor. Both of us should. The body kind and the talking kind. Alphys’s doctor is very nice and they’re something of an expert on damaged souls, it turns out. Why are you flinching whenever I say doctor?”

 _Fuck_. Sans just keeps digging the hole deeper and he didn’t even say anything that time. This thing where Papyrus is willing to call him on his shit is trouble. And the worst part is he can’t even be pissed at Red for telling Papyrus the truth. Angry with himself for not hiding the notes better, yeah, but Red was just trying to look out for Papyrus. He can’t fault Red for that.

“No big deal,” Sans says. “I just don’t like doctors. You know that.”

“I do,” Papyrus says, thoughtful, like he’s solving Sans’s bullshit bit by bit. “Does this have anything to do with the possible eavesdropping of this Dr. G-- Dr. Looking Nervously at Corners When I Say His Name?”

Papyrus is so fucking quick. How many questions has he been holding back all this time because he was afraid to push? And now they’re all coming out at once, full-force, and it’s… a lot. It’s exhausting. Is this what people feel when Sans judges them, their sins like a physical weight on their shoulders? No wonder Asgore--

He takes a drink of the coffee, stalling. It’s cold by now. The rim chatters briefly against his teeth. He swallows and sets the mug down. His voice is almost even. “Maybe. I dunno.”

Not the smoothest evasion. He might as well have just said yes.

Papyrus reaches across the table and lays his hand on Sans’s. It’s warm. Sans latches on like it’s the two of them in the lab again, Sans trying to keep his shit together after a test, Papyrus holding on like he thinks Sans is going to leave him behind. They’re not kids anymore but hell, tell it to his ghosts.

“Cherry said he made the Core. I thought he was the nerdy science kind of doctor like you,” Papyrus says. 

“I didn’t finish my doctorate, dude,” Sans points out, like that’s the important thing here.

Papyrus ignores him. “Not the kind of doctor with needles and lasers and screaming and…”

He trails off. Sans glances at his face, expecting to find him gone again, but Papyrus isn’t absent. Not all the way, anyway. He’s staring at nothing and frowning like the nothing personally kicked his dog. It seems to take him less time to refocus than usual.

“I don’t like doctors either,” Papyrus says. He holds Sans’s hand like he’s forgotten he’s doing it. “I didn’t really think I had strong opinions one way or the other? Probably because I’m such a specimen of health that it never came up? But no, I don’t like doctors at all. That’s strange.”

It’s not quite a question. Sans isn’t sure why when Papyrus hasn’t exactly skimped on the questions so far, but maybe he can see that Sans is at the end of his rope already even though they’ve barely scratched the surface of all his bullshit. Or maybe it’s because Gaster was always too good at making Papyrus doubt himself, every idea and every opinion and every memory.

It’s nothing Red knows about. Papyrus doesn’t know the truth. Sans could pretend not to notice. All these secrets toppled like dominos but it didn’t touch the ones about the lab, the ones that really hurt. He could lie. It would be so much easier than the truth.

But fuck, if he looks Papyrus in the face right now, when he’s supposed to be coming clean, and lies to him _again_ , that would be crossing a line they can’t come back from if Papyrus ever finds out.

“He, uh, wasn’t just my boss,” Sans says. “Guess it was different for Red. We lived with the doctor. For a long time. Since we were kids.”

Cautiously, Papyrus says, “So he was like our fath--”

“No,” Sans says, too sharp. 

Back when Papyrus was little, he used to ask where they came from. If they had parents like other people, and if so, where they were and when they were coming back for them. Sans told him the truth: that he doesn’t remember anything before the street, only their names and that they’re brothers (and that someone told him to keep his brother safe). It’s an old mystery that Sans is content not solving. By the time they got to the lab, Papyrus had stopped asking, but Sans knows he still looks at Frisk with Toriel and Asgore and wonders. But it’s better that they’re orphans than have fucking _Gaster_ as their father.

“No,” Sans says, trying to be gentler. “It wasn’t like that. We just lived with him instead of on the street.”

“He took us in?” Papyrus says. “Which sounds like a kind thing to do, very commendable, but you’re afraid of him.”

“He…” Fuck, this is hard. “He wasn’t a good person.”

“I don’t really believe in good or bad people,” Papyrus says. Despite his words, he looks a little uneasy. “I’m sure he was doing his best.”

Tiredly, Sans shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe that was really the best he could do. It doesn’t matter. That was a long time ago and he’s stuck in the void now. End of story.”

Papyrus searches Sans’s face like familiar territory. Finally, he asks, “Did he hurt us?”

And what the hell can he say to that but a simple: “Yeah. Yeah, he did.”

“Oh,” Papyrus says. He squeezes Sans’s fingers, releases him and sits back in his chair. “Well, that’s a relief. I thought there was just something wrong with me.”

One day, it’d be nice to one of Sans’s mistakes to blow back on _him_ instead of everybody else. It’s just one screw-up after another, a compounding fractal of fucking up that’s even worse because he’d convinced himself he was doing the right thing. He wasn’t trying to protect Papyrus by keeping his mouth shut about the resets or his soul, but Gaster…

He’s never been able to protect Papyrus from Gaster. He doesn’t know why he thought he could try after Gaster was gone.

The least favorite nightmares, the weird glitches when Papyrus tries to remember, the way he sometimes just says the most horrifying shit like it’s nothing, the way he struggles with contradicting people who aren’t Sans like he thinks he’s going to get in trouble for it. They’re all just parts of Papyrus to Sans because he was there, he knows, but he can see how without that information, Papyrus could come to all the wrong conclusions.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Sans says. He doubts it helps, but hell, he’s not going to just let Papyrus think he agrees. “You just can’t remember.”

Papyrus exhales. For all that Sans can feel his sins on his back, Papyrus sits up a little straighter like the weight was taken off his. “I don’t remember a lot of things. It’s incredibly vexing to find out that my flawless memory has so many holes.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sans says. “I wouldn’t remember him if I hadn’t been standing right there when he fell in the Core.”

“Still,” Papyrus grumbles, like universal causality did it just to personally irk him. He taps his finger on the table, clearly thinking. “You don’t remember the resets?”

“No,” Sans says. “Just some weird recurring dreams and what fit on the back of a photo. Now you know everything I know, which is not a whole fucking lot.”

“That’s still more answers than I had to start with,” Papyrus says. “And how long did we live with the doctor?”

“Six years. We left as soon as I was 18. I went back to work with him, but that wasn’t as bad. He couldn’t--”

 _Hurt me anymore._ He doesn’t finish his sentence. Judging from Papyrus’s expression, he heard it anyway.

“Six years,” Papyrus says. “Wowie. No wonder I get headaches. That’s a big hole to think around all the time.”

“Yeah,” Sans says. “I bet. Sorry.”

“Well, you didn’t put it there,” Papyrus says with some asperity. Then his eyes light up with wary, fragile hope. “But you can fix it. Will you help me remember?”

Sans hesitates. “Paps, you--”

“I want to know,” Papyrus says. The first words are calm. They get faster with each one, tripping on each other in their desperation. “It’ll hurt, knowing. But it was a thing that happened to me too, and I don’t _remember_ but I know something’s wrong, and can’t you see that’s so much worse?”

And yeah. Yeah, Sans sees. For the first time, he sees. He’s been trying so fucking hard to forget that he missed the fact that Papyrus has been fighting just as hard to remember whether universal causality wants him to or not. The moments where Papyrus trips over memories of Gaster he’s not supposed to have, spaces out and has to mentally reboot are happening more and more often. Papyrus is gonna break himself trying to fill in the gaps if Sans doesn’t do it for him.

So.

So there’s only one thing Sans can do, then, isn’t there.

Sans says, “I’ll tell you whatever you wanna know.”

Papyrus blinks. Then he smiles like Sans agreeing to tell him about their shitty childhood is the equivalent of handing a burger to somebody who’s starving. He’s _grateful_. “Thank you, brother.”

Sans shakes his head. It’s not the kind of thing Papyrus should be thanking him for, finally getting his shit together at the eleventh fucking hour when he’s forced into a corner. But then that’s pretty much how he operates. He gets up. His body feels twenty times heavier than it should, like all the explanations he still has to give are a sandbag he’s hauling around in his ribcage. “Gimme a second. If we’re gonna do this, I need more coffee.”

Papyrus cocks his head, eyes suddenly narrowing. “Is your soul bothering you?”

“No,” Sans says automatically. Papyrus raises a brow, and Sans realizes he’s absently rubbing at his chest and maybe has been for a couple of minutes now, like he can soothe the pain through his ribs. He stops, wrapping his fingers around his mug instead. “A little. It’s fine.”

Papyrus stands too and puts his hands on Sans’s shoulders, herding him to the couch. Apparently that’s a universal constant, which is endearing on Papyrus and… okay, endearing from Edge, but that’s not the point. The point is that Sans ends up sitting on the couch while Papyrus drags the quilt off the back and fretfully tucks it around his shoulders.

“What was I thinking?” Papyrus mutters. “Honestly! Which, well, yes, is the basic premise of the conversation but--”

“Dude, relax,” Sans says. “You gave me an out, I’m the one who told you I could handle it. I’m okay.”

Papyrus sits down on the other end of the couch, grasping his knees. “Yes, and it was a surprisingly productive heart to heart! Very well done, us! And now we’re done for the day because we’re not going to get through six years of bad memories in one single traumatizing afternoon!”

“I thought you wanted to know.”

“I _do_ want to know,” Papyrus says. “And you answered some of my questions today, and you’ll answer a few more of my questions tomorrow, and the day after that, a little bit at a time until we’re done, because I’d rather have some of the answers and a not-hurting brother than all of the questions and a brother who looks like death. Except Undyne says Death is a hot chick and you meet neither of the qualifications.”

Sans can recognize when Papyrus is doing that thing where he throws a lot of words at people at once to stun them into behaving. Recognizing it doesn’t mean it’s not effective. He sinks back into the couch. “Okay? If you’re cool with that?”

“I am very cool,” Papyrus agrees. “I’m glad we had this talk.”

Sans can’t exactly say _me too_ , but it’s been a long time coming. It’s weird just sitting here without all his secrets dangling over his head like an anvil about to drop. He feels kind of empty. Not bad empty, necessarily, just thoroughly scoured and shoved back into the world raw and new. He rubs tiredly at his face. “I already knew you were cool, bro.”

“This is true. It’s hard to miss.” Papyrus rummages between the couch cushions. “And for my next demonstration of coolness, I’m going to vegetate like a veritable vegetoid on this couch with you instead of doing dishes.”

“You don’t gotta,” Sans says without much conviction. “You could just grab me my phone. I oughta check and see if I’ve still got a job to go to tonight.”

Papyrus gives him a truly blistering look. 

“Wow, okay,” Sans says. “Or not.”

“Very not,” Papyrus says. “Of all the times for you to develop a work ethic. Imagine if I missed a day of work and you didn’t! It would unbalance the universe.”

“Huh,” Sans says. “Well, I can’t be responsible for unbalancing the universe, I guess.”

To be honest, he’s not that het up to go anywhere. He feels like crap. And that thing where he’s refusing to cling to Papyrus doesn’t mean he loves the idea of being farther than a few rooms away, just in case he suddenly needs to reassure himself his brother is still there. Maybe Red will agree to rip Sans up one side and down the other in the cellar, at a reasonable volume, with a minimum of shoving him against the wall.

Yeah. Sure. That’ll totally happen if Sans asks politely.

“Exactly,” Papyrus says. “Besides, you still need some healing. If you won’t see a d--” A barely noticeable pause. “-- healer, I can help you. I’m, er, not sure how one goes about fixing a soul, Cherry wasn’t very clear on that point because he was in something of a rush, but I’m sure I can figure it out?”

Sans has the sudden chill at the idea of Papyrus seeing the inside of his head. All his cards are on the table (mostly) but… no. Never. He’s not doing that to his brother. He’ll Fall first.

“Edge is helping me out with that,” Sans says. “The soul thing. He’s been keeping him and Red alive, so. Yeah. I figure he’s got more, uh, hands-on experience than a healer from our universe would, even an expert.”

He was kind of afraid Papyrus would be hurt that he asked someone else for help, but Papyrus just looks relieved. “Good! Er, not that Alphys’s healer isn’t a perfectly nice person, I’m sure. But, well, I’m glad it’s someone I can trust implicitly to handle something so delicate.”

Sans snorts. “You calling me delicate?”

“Hardly,” Papyrus says, deadpan. “Brother, I have seen you try to figure out how to play the 1812 Overture on a series of whoopee cushions. Delicate isn’t the word.”

“The trick is variable levels of inflation and pressure,” Sans says. “C’mon. That’s practically a physics experiment.”

“I’m sure scientific progress thanks you for your efforts,” Papyrus says. He turns the television on low and starts flipping through the channels, so fast that Sans has no fucking idea how he can tell what he’s looking at.

It could be any other afternoon, shooting the shit with his brother. It’s so absolutely normal. The whole world has upended. Sans has killed people and nearly died, all his secrets have been thrown out into harsh daylight, and Papyrus is still here. The one thing that hasn’t changed is this.

“Paps.” When Papyrus turns his head to look at him, expecting a joke, Sans says, “I really am sorry. For everything.”

“You said that already,” Papyrus says. “I’m not sure you’re sorry for the right things. But you’re trying to fix it now, which is better than an apology, I think. And before you get any strange ideas, I officially forgive you. I can make up a certificate at a later date if you’d like one.”

“Nah,” Sans says. “Thanks, though.”

They settle into a relatively comfortable silence. The regular pulse of the television changing channels is weirdly lulling. When the channel roulette wheel finally stops, it’s on the science channel. Like the waffles, and the NASA shirt. Papyrus is trying really fucking hard to do what he can to make this better because he’s worried sick.

“I’ll go to the therapist,” Sans offers. “If you want.”

Papyrus turns to look at him again, surprised. Then he smiles. His eyes are bright, the light in them warm. “I have some things to think about too, apparently. We’ll do it together.”

Sans shifts, wedging himself further in the corner of the couch, and lays his head back. Sighs. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Papyrus says.

And for the moment, it is.

***

There's no reason why, considering that he just woke up a couple hours ago, but between one slow blink and another, Sans drifts off. When he wakes up, it's after sunset. Papyrus is stretched out on the couch, his legs across Sans's lap, his head thrown back, sacked out. The room is dim aside from the television and, from across the room, red eyelights in the dark.

Red is slouched in a chair at the kitchen table, knees spread wide. He's idly messing with his cellphone, punctuated by little taps of bone against the screen. Considering that Sans expected Red to be fucking out of control furious, it's surreal.

"What're you doing here?" Sans asks quiet as he can, although he's pretty sure it would take a bomb to wake Papyrus up right now.

Red raises his eyes. And oh yeah, he's angry, all right; Sans can read it in the tightness of his grin. "Came to check on your bro. Then I decided to jack your wifi to download porn."

"Oh," Sans says intelligently. He scrubs his hand over his face, trying to wake himself up a little. "Let's take this to the cellar. I don't wanna freak out Papyrus."

Red turns off his phone and shoves it in his pocket. Pushes himself off the chair. Crosses the room like there's no rush, taking his time, and Sans is too tired for Red's mind games right now but he can't say he hasn't earned a little fuckery.

Standing above Sans, Red thoroughly looks him over. His eyes narrow when he reaches Sans's neck, going flatter and colder than Sans has ever seen them. For a moment, Sans thinks it's because Edge told him about the collar and Red's picked the weirdest time to get jealous. Then he remembers the bruise Unundyne left on him. Red must not have seen them in the chaos last night. He's probably pissed Sans let himself get choked.

When Sans starts to pick up Papyrus's legs so he can gently extricate himself, Red says abruptly, "Nah. Let him sleep. He needs it, the poor bastard."

Sans stares at him. "Then this better be the quietest reaming out ever."

Red shoves his hands in his pockets, grinning a neutral grin. His gaze flicks periodically back to Sans's throat like it's pulled by a magnet. "Is this Gaster thing gonna blow up in our faces in the next twelve hours?"

Sans flinches at the name. He sees Red clock his reaction, the grim satisfaction of his smile as he tucks that tidbit of information away for later.

"No," Sans says. "It's not you or Edge he's pissed at. Edge just got caught in the crossfire. I'm s--"

"Is it gonna blow up in _your_ face in the next twelve hours?" Red asks, like that actually matters to him.

"No," Sans says again, more warily. There are potentially feelings happening here. Feelings: his greatest nemesis. "Should be okay if I stay out of the void."

"Then congrats, you get a stay of execution. You want some painkillers?"

This conversation isn't going the way Sans expected it to. Blinking, he tries to follow Red's swerve. "Nah. I've felt worse."

Which is true. It’s just that he hasn’t felt this awful since he was a kid. Now that he’s safe, he’s paying for brute-forcing his way through three sleepless days with a busted soul.

"Pain'll fuck up your soul, genius.” Red shrugs. “If you wanna be stupid about it, that’s your call.”

Oh. Well, that puts Sans repeatedly trying to force himself through the agony of touching his soul in a new perspective. He asks, already knowing he’s gonna take them, "How strong are they?"

"Not very. But it’ll take the, heh, edge off." Red pulls a bottle out of his pocket and tosses it to Sans. "Still gotta be able to fight, y'know?"

Yeah, Sans knows.

He takes the bottle and extracts one of the little white tabs. When he puts it in his mouth, it tastes like a sugar pill, just a bit of magic food to carry a fuckton of intent. As soon as he swallows, relief washes through him all at once. The pain is still there but it's dulled to something tolerable. He takes his first deep breath in hours, relaxing out of the careful position he's been holding to try to keep the pain from flaring up.

"Dumbass," Red grumbles. When Sans starts to pass the bottle back, he shakes his head. "Take ‘em when you need ‘em. Don’t be a stubborn asshole about it."

Before Sans can protest, Red leans down and kisses him. It's the kind of kiss Red shouldn't be giving him while Papyrus is on the couch next to them. It’s a demand, a reclamation. When Red pulls back, leaving Sans open-mouthed and breathing unsteadily, his grin is vicious. Like the sweetest threat, he says, “See you tomorrow, honey.”

Then he's gone like he was just a hallucination, leaving Sans with a bottle of pills and an unfortunate heat in the base of his pelvis.


	2. Chapter 2

“I cannot believe you’re resorting to psychological warfare on your own brother,” Papyrus says.

That expression. That’s the expression of someone who’s had to deal with a very bad rendition of They Might Be Giants at 7:30 in the morning. Sans would feel bad about it, except he’s pretty sure that if Papyrus is cooped up another day with nothing to do but talk about their childhood trauma, somebody’s going to get strangled. Lovingly. So y’know, needs must.

(It has nothing to do with the fact that when Red shows up to shake him down for answers, he wants Papyrus out of the blast radius. Nope.)

Sans pauses long enough to draw in a breath and ask, “Is it working?”

Papyrus crosses his arms and frowns. “I’m only concerned that you’re--”

Yep. Take twenty. Sans isn’t a bad singer, necessarily, unless it’s funny, in which case he’s terrible. He starts again. “The sun is a mass of incandescent gas, a gigantic nuclear--”

Papyrus throws his hands up. “Fine! Fine! Yes, I’ll go to work, you infuriating little man!”

Sans stops on a dime and grins up at him. “Good idea.”

A sigh that seems to come from the bottom of Papyrus’s soul. He leans across the couch, serious business teacher tie dangling, and points a finger in Sans’s face. “However! You will answer when I call every two hours to check on you or I’m coming straight home!”

That’s about the best bargain he’s going to get. Sans swats amiably at Papyrus’s tie. “Two hours. Gotcha. Now go, the kids are probably going into greatness withdrawal.”

“This is true. How generous of you to think of the children.” Papyrus pats him on the head. “All right. But if you change your mind--”

“You’ll pick up in two rings,” Sans says. “I know. Don’t make me start singing again. I haven’t even gotten to Particle Man.”

Papyrus shudders dramatically. Then he grabs his bag, heads for the door, flings it open, and pauses long enough to say, “I love you, you terrible goblin.”

Sans grins and gives him fingerguns. “Love you too.”

The door closes. He waits, listening, as Papyrus’s car starts, pulls away, and recedes into the regular murmur of the city waking up. For the first time in four days, Sans is really alone.

He deflates into the couch. He’s better than yesterday, which isn’t saying much. He still feels like shit, bone-deep tired and sore enough to take one of the painkillers, but at least he doesn’t have to pretend otherwise. And he has nowhere to be. The call center manager sweetly told him to take as much time as he needed to recover. (Read: _we both know you’re a lousy employee but you have close ties to the embassy and we don’t want any trouble._ ) Not going to a job, any job, for days itches at him, but he’d probably take an unscheduled nap face-first on his keyboard and give them an excuse to fire him if he tried.

(If he’s not leaving the house, he probably isn’t seeing Edge again today, which shouldn’t hit him like a physical ache because he’s not. fucking. clingy. He’s fine. It’s fine.)

He and Papyrus were up all night, watching TV (mostly watching each other) in between Sans catching snatches of uneasy sleep. Maybe he’ll really go wild and crash in his own bed this time. He’s gonna have to try it eventually. Might as well do it when he won’t freak out Papyrus if he wakes up screaming.

He gets up off the couch and shuffles unenthusiastically to his room. He’s never felt less happy about taking a nap, but having to rest because his soul is fucked and he overdid it takes all the joy out of it. The door must’ve stayed closed while he was gone, because inside it’s all stale air and eau de depression. It’s comfortingly familiar. He crawls onto the mattress and curls up on his side, settling in, and closes his eyes. Quiet sinks around him like a heavy blanket.

Yep. Just him and his thoughts now.

All the things he’s trying not to think about.

Which is a lot of things, really. For example, that sound that Asgore made as he tore into his chest, or the blood on the snow where the rabbits died, or Gaster, or--

Fuck, this was a terrible idea. What the hell was he even thinking. How the fuck is he supposed to--

Before eight months ago, Sans had never heard anybody else shortcut into a room. The sound is soft but distinctive. It's the only reason he manages to pull his attack at the last minute and hit the wall instead of Red.

Red looks at him from a few inches to the left of where he started, brows raised, then at the wall. There are still bones protruding, crackling faintly in the moment before they crumble. In a tone of professional appreciation, he says, “Real tight clustering. Nice."

Sans sinks back down onto his elbows on the mattress and demands, "What the fuck is wrong with you? I could've killed you."

“Meh. You'd have to try a little harder than that." Red brushes imaginary dust off his shoulder. "Figured you were in the living room."

It's almost, but not quite, an apology. Sans gets twenty times more wary. "What do you want?"

That makes Red grin, and not a nice one. He comes a few steps closer, standing over the bed. "Told you I'd give you twelve hours. Time's up."

Sans doesn't sit up. He's not impressed by looming. Red is a subpar loomer. Maybe because he's used to being the shortest guy in the room and he doesn't have the practice. "Do you want me to stand up so you can bounce me off a wall?"

It’s a serious question. He certainly has it coming. But Red sits down on the edge of the mattress. Conversationally, he says, "Did you know Gaster was alive?"

Again that guilty, traitorous flinch. It's tough not to avert his eyes, but Sans knows Red is watching his face for a lie. Holding his gaze, Sans says, "No. But I should've. I fucked up and this is on me. I-'"

"I ain't done," Red says. "Did you know he could open a shortcut to another universe?"

"No," Sans says. "Look, I know. I almost got Edge killed, so if you want to--"

Red cuts him off. "Did you know your shortcuts weren't working?"

It’s like trying to shake off a terrier. Sans gives up. "I ended up off by a couple of feet the day before."

"When I was losing my fucking shit.”

"Yeah."

"Were you gonna tell me?"

"Probably," Sans says, erring on the side of honesty. "I don't know. I was trying not to use shortcuts but shit happened."

"You mean a kid tried to kill you and Edge grabbed you in the middle of a teleport like a fucking dumbass," Red says.

Sans stares at him. "What, are you saying it's his fault now?"

"Don't get me wrong. I ain't letting you off the hook. There's just plenty of stupid to go around," Red says. "On a good shortcut, that still coulda ended with him getting dropped off the side of a building or something. He knew better when he was in striped shirts."

"It wasn't his fault," Sans says.

"You defending his honor now?" Red grins crookedly. "That's sweet."

Sans's mind flashes nonsensically back to the collar. He shoves it away, shifting to give Red his best flat, impressed look. He's the one who screwed up here, but it's hard to shut up and take it when Red is so fucking aggravating. "Sure. I'm adorable as hell."

"Ain't you just," Red says. He studies Sans's face, his grin neutral, hard for even Sans to read. “This is on you, huh. You’re trying real hard to throw yourself on that grenade.”

Sans’s patience cracks neatly in half. Red does that to him. “What the fuck, Red? You flip your shit at me because Edge is too nice to you but what, this is fine? He could’ve died!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Red snaps. “Yeah, he could’ve died! You both could’ve died and I couldn’t have done shit about it! I thought you were--”

Red stops, looking away. After a moment, he looks back at Sans with his grin back on straight. “You fucked up, but you weren’t the one who sent you both straight to hell. That’s on Gaster, and I’m going to drag his ass out of the void and make him fucking pay.”

A chill goes straight up Sans’s back. He mostly manages to keep it out of his voice when he says, “Sure. Drag the guy who’s powerful enough to shove people across universes out of the void to where all the innocent bystanders are when we don’t know what else he can do. Great idea.”

“Cool your tits, I ain’t saying we’re gonna do it right the fuck now,” Red says. “We’ll figure something out.”

“ _We_ aren’t doing jack shit,” Sans says.

“Well, I sure know I ain’t leaving a threat like that alive,” Red says. “And don’t you fucking open your mouth and say he’s only a threat to you, or I swear I’ll smother you with this gross-ass ball of sheets. You wanna go out like that, Sansy? You wanna go out with jizz in your mouth?”

Sans blinks up at him. “Old jizz or jizz in general?”

“Old jizz, obviously.”

“No thanks, then.”

Red pats his cheek like a condescending asshole. “Of course you don’t. But hey, if it’ll make you feel better, I swear that when you’re dying, I’ll jerk off in your mouth.”

“That’s sweet,” Sans says. “I’m moved. You want me to do the same?”

“Well, my bro sure isn’t gonna do it,” Red says. “He’ll probably be crying and shit.”

Sans scrubs a hand over his eyes, trying to remind himself that this is still a dangerous situation and Red is trying to lull him into a sense of security before he goes for his throat. It can’t be this easy. “How is he doing, anyway? Edge, I mean. I figured you'd have to be pried off his dick with a crowbar."

Red gives him a look that says that wasn't nearly as smooth and casual as Sans meant it to be. "A little banged up but he's fine. Pried me off himself so he could go report to the king."

A sudden, horrible realization strikes Sans that the only thing standing between them and Red's universe is an unplugged machine, one that Asgore, big fluffy soft-hearted Asgore, will want to use as soon as he hears that there are scared, starving people on the other side. Sans starts to sit up, to do something even if he doesn't know what, and Red plants a hand in his sternum and pushes him back down.

"Funny thing," Red says. "It turns out that somebody pulled the entropy engine right out of the machine last night and wandered off with it."

Sans sinks back into the mattress. His soul is pounding like it’s trying to break itself. His voice rings hollow. "What a strangely specific burglar."

"Yeah," Red says. "And y'know, I don't remember how I put it together. Do you?"

"No," Sans says. Which is literally true, at the moment. All the thoughts have gone straight out of his head. He couldn't repair a toaster. "Not a thing."

Red tsks. "Trauma's a bitch."

If Sans was a better person, he could maybe figure out the ethical mathematics of the situation. On the one hand, the people in Red's universe are dying pointless, stupid deaths, and they could be helped. Some of them could be saved. On the other hand, if they open that door, Unundyne will come through it with war on her mind and people will die. If enough of them are humans, it might kick off the human-monster war again, and then...

Right. Ethics. It has nothing to do with the fact that Sans is terrified of Unundyne coming to finish what she started. He's so fucking selfless he can hold all these lives in his hands and tell himself it's for the best.

"Hey," Red says, jerking his attention back. His eyes are keen, like he can see the tracks Sans’s brain went down written on his face. "Just long enough to let her calm the fuck down."

"Yeah. I'm sure she'll get over that thing where I killed her father eventually."

"She’ll still wanna kill you," Red says, which is apparently his version of being comforting. "But right now, she'd try to kill anyone who got in her way. Scorched earth. And you know my brother would be first in line to try to stop her from doing something stupid."

Yeah, Sans knows. It's a universal trait. He sighs. "Then I don't remember shit. I guess it'll come back to me."

Red shrugs. "If you want. I don’t give a shit."

Sans was there when Red talked fondly about smoking weed and watching hentai with his Alphys. He's heard Red call the place home. He doesn't buy it. But he's also not stupid enough to point that out.

Instead, he asks, "Go on. You’ve gotta have more questions.”

“Heh.” Not like Sans is funny. Like Red is laughing at himself. Then Red shifts over so that his hip presses against the outside of Sans's thigh, planting his hand beside Sans's other shoulder, leaning over him, effectively pinning him in. When Sans's breath hitches in, subvocal, Red grins like he’s won. "Yeah, I got a question. Your bro’s not here.”

“That’s not a question,” Sans says. He’s very aware of Red’s body almost on top of his, the heat of it, the scent of Red’s bones, the threat/promise in that kiss last night. His legs are a little open, only a thin layer of clothes between his bones and Red’s hands.

“No, but this is,” Red says. “I wanna fuck you. You good with that?”

The surge of sheer, visceral want that surges up in Sans is humiliating, like he’s been starving for Red like food or sleep. Red’s grin goes sharper; he sees the answer on Sans’s face, but Sans knows the bastard is going to hold out until he actually says it.

Sans grasps at the remains of his coherent thoughts as they turn into just _yes, yes, yes_. As far as he can tell, Red’s genuinely into it despite every sane reason not to be, but he could be wrong. He’s perceptive, sure, but he can come to the wrong conclusions, and right now it could be skewed by how bad he just wants to drag Red on top of him and rut against him like an animal. “You’re pissed off.”

“I said I wanna fuck you,” Red says. “I didn’t say I’d be nice.”

The shiver that rolls through Sans isn’t fear. He tries to grin easily. “You cashing in that blank check?”

Red considers him, thoughtful, then shakes his head. “Nah. You’d go down too easy. Takes the fun out of it if you’re not all bitey. Nice to know the check’s still good for later, though.”

“Of course the check’s still good,” Sans says, offended. “You think I write bad checks?”

“I think you’ve lived this long because you’ll say whatever you need to to get out of a bad situation,” Red says.

It skims too close to acknowledging what happened with Asgore. Red knows. Of course he’s figured it out. There’s no judgement in his expression, just curiosity and something like respect. Sans’s wires are all crossed, the cold reminder of what he’s done paired with the hot pulse between his legs where his magic wants to form. He shoves the memories away. He’s good at that, although not nearly as good as he thought he was.

“It’s cute that you think you count as a bad situation,” Sans says. “I’m good for it. You think Grillby lets just anybody keep a tab? You come in my house and you insult me.”

“Well, excuse the fuck out of me for trying not to be an asshole,” Red says.

“Try harder,” Sans says. His eyes flick to Red’s pelvis, then back to his face. He probably shouldn’t bait Red. Only a complete idiot would do that right now. “Or don’t. I can take it. Unless you’re all talk? It’s fine, it happens to a lot of guys.”

“Maybe you do still got some bite in you.” If it was anyone but Red, Sans might call that expression fond. He hooks two fingers in Sans’s waistband and snaps it. “Take these off.”

“You gotta move first,” Sans points out. Red stares flatly at him for a long moment, then rolls his eyes like it’s a huge imposition and lets him up so he can squirm out of his shorts. It’s businesslike, not exactly a striptease, but Red is pulling off his clothes with the same efficiency, still watching Sans. When Sans goes to pull his shirt off, Red is quick to snag him by the wrist. Disgruntled, Sans demands, “What now?”

“You don’t gotta do that,” Red says.

“I might as well,” Sans says. “I’m sure Edge already told you my soul’s fucked up. You can’t tell me you’re not curious.”

“I’m curious as fuck,” Red says. “That doesn’t mean you gotta whip it out when you’re feeling like hell. It’s not the fucking price of admission.”

It’s always weird when Red tries to be a good guy. As close to soothing as Red will tolerate, Sans says, “It’s fine. It’s my soul so it’s my call, right?”

Red gives him another of those searching looks. Then he shrugs and lets go of Sans’s wrist.

Sans yanks his shirt off and tosses it in the corner. The second Red sees his soul, he freezes halfway through taking his own shirt off, his eyelights shrinking. Sans finally found a way to shut him up. There’s not any satisfaction in it.

An awful silence. Then Red says, very quietly, “What the fuck is wrong with you.”

Sans shouldn’t have pitched the shirt. He could use something between Red’s stare and his soul. Defensively, he says, “It’s not that bad.”

Red laughs, too sharp. “Oh, it’s not that bad? Really? That’s good to know. Huge weight off my mind.”

“Yours looks worse than--”

“Yeah, and I fucking Fell!” Red snarls.

The words make sense individually. Not together, not unless it’s a really dark joke. Sans stares at him. “But you’re--”

“Walking around?” Red asks. He looks tired, suddenly. “Yeah. I got back up.”

“Nobody gets back up,” Sans says. Not unless they’re an amalgamate, and he thinks he would’ve noticed by now.

“Yeah, that’s what I hear,” Red says. His eyes still haven’t left Sans’s soul. “But I’m still kicking, so apparently not.”

“You never--” Wow, is it stupid to feel vaguely betrayed that Red never told him, considering. Sans shakes his head. “What happened?”

“Anime bullshit,” Red says darkly.

Sans blinks. “What?”

“Edge healed my soul when I was out. I got up. End of story.”

Sans sincerely doubts it. Then again, thinking about it, if it was him unconscious on that table in the lab, if it was Papyrus desperately reaching out to try to call him back, would Sans leave him? Could he?

Anime bullshit.

Awkwardly, Sans asks, “Are you, uh, okay now?”

That makes Red look him in the face. And oh, there’s that fury from the alley that Sans expected. That rage. In a cold, quiet voice, Red asks, “Am I okay?”

“Okay,” Sans says, frozen in the path of that glare. “Admittedly, that was a stupid question.”

Red gestures at Sans’s soul. His hand is shaking. “What the fuck were you thinking? If you were trying to kill yourself, there are easier ways of doing it. At least it’d be fucking quick!”

“I know,” Sans says. “I’m an idiot, it was stupid, I know. I’m sorry.”

Red doesn’t even seem to hear him. “Fuck you! You don’t get to just--”

Red stops. Then he gives an explosive curse, gets up, and starts to pace. His hands are laced behind his neck like he’s trying to keep himself from choking somebody. 

Sans watches him. After a long few moments, he says, “I wasn’t trying to--”

“Shut up.”

Sans shuts up. When the pacing doesn’t stop for another minute, he tries, “Can you toss me my shirt, at least?”

Red stops mid-stride. He stands there in the middle of the room, his body a line of tension. When he speaks, he almost sounds amused. “You’re enough to make a guy believe in karma, you know that?”

Karmic retribution, at least, but Sans knows that’s not what Red is talking about. He says, “Fuck, I hope not. Can you imagine how much worse the universe would be if whatever terrible shit happened to us was something we knew we had coming?”

Philosophical bullshit. He’s just throwing words at the problem, desperately hoping they’ll help. The quiet is so profound that he can hear Red breathing. After another agonizingly long moment, Red sighs. “Yeah, that’d be a bitch.” 

He comes back and sits back down on the mattress. He’s still tense, but he seems less primed to explode. It seethes in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders, but something happened inside his head that let him get it mostly under control. That’s good. Sans can’t teleport him to Edge to deal with it this time.

“You done freaking out?” Sans asks.

Red reaches out and pokes Sans in the ribcage. Sans tries not to reflexively wince even though Red’s nowhere near his soul. Red notices, eyes narrowing, then shakes his head. His voice is dead serious. A warning. “You ain’t allowed to die over something this fucking stupid. Capiche?”

“I’m pretty sure this is a one-time only situation,” Sans says. Red’s expression doesn’t yield. “I get it.”

“You’d better.” When Red reaches out to touch Sans again, it’s with the flat of his fingers, tracing the rib just beneath Sans’s collarbone. Almost tenderly, Red says, “If anybody’s gonna kill you, it’s gonna be me.”

There shouldn’t be any lingering heat in Sans’s system, considering, but that exploratory touch stirs up a fire that’s gone low. It’s fucked up. He’s fucked up. Sans exhales shakily. “I dunno if you still want to, but--”

In one quick move, Red pushes him flat onto his back and climbs on top of him, straddling his hips. Red might’ve stalled out in the middle of getting naked but his pants are off, bare bone on bare bone. He’s so warm, a heat that radiates.

“You wanna hand me your shirt?” Sans asks, the words hitching in the middle as Red grinds down. “That way you don’t have to look at it.”

Red leans down, his body pressing Sans into the mattress, and kisses him. Sans loses track of what he was going to say. His body doesn’t care about anything but this, this primal drive. He kisses Red back.

When Red pulls back, Sans tries to drag him back down, and Red grabs him by the wrist and pins that arm to the bed beside his head. Red’s grin is sharp and gorgeous. There’s a dangerous light in his eyes. “I wanna look at you.”

“Hngh,” is the noise Sans makes, or something like it. Red grins wider. Sans feels obligated to say, “Y’know, for the record, this is supposed to be my turn.”

“Yeah?” Red grinds down on him again, and this time Sans feels something wet and hot skim across his pubic symphysis. He makes a very quiet noise that of course Red hears. “You don’t sound really married to the idea.”

“I’m not really married to the idea of you deciding I’m your bitch just because I let you top too many times in a row,” Sans says.

“You got the weirdest hangups. But sure, I swear I won’t decide you’re my bitch. It’s a special occasion on account of you being half-dead.” Red’s voice is all soft and coaxing, probably the voice he uses to get rubes to give him information. “Now relax and lemme have the wheel so I can get us both off.”

Sans folds like a shoddy stack of cards. He nods and lets his head drop back. Which is a mistake, it turns out, because Red’s eyes immediately go to his bared throat. Red lets go of his wrist and lays his fingers instead on Sans’s spine. The bruise is barely a shadow now; Papyrus insisted on healing it last night. But Red stares at it like it’s just as fresh, like it’s branded into Sans’s bones. Suddenly he’s not just Red, his fuckbuddy, his smug disaster of a lover, but somebody much, much colder.

“It’s just a bruise,” Sans says, caught off guard. “It’s nothing.”

Red meets his eyes, and there’s no mercy in them, a rage that’s not aimed at Sans. Then he leans in, replacing his fingers with his mouth. When his tongue drags over the bruise like he can clean the marks away, Sans grabs him by the shoulder. Red lets him that time, nuzzling against his spine, hot breath against the wet bone. Sans feels the faint prickle of teeth, no pressure behind it, and shudders as the faint warmth of unformed magic in his pelvis goes solid and so much more sensitive.

“That’s right,” Red murmurs against him. “So good for me.”

Another of those uncontrolled shudders. Sans says roughly, “Don’t.” It hits too hard. He wants it too much.

He expects Red to give him shit. Red huffs out a breath, almost a laugh, but lets it go. He shifts, gets a hand between them, curling his fingers around Sans’s cock. Sans doesn’t manage to bite back a moan. His magic feels overheated and frenetic, like Red might feel it buzzing in his hands. It’s like his body is trying to make up for every time he thought he was dying, every moment of fear and despair and anger, with a pleasure that’s as sharp as a knife.

Red sinks down on him, all welcoming wet heat, taking him in one smooth motion with a low, satisfied groan. Sans clutches Red’s hip, not trying to stop him, just trying to hold onto something. Shakily, he says, “I’m not--”

“I know,” Red says, punctuating the words with another almost-bite. He eases off Sans’s cock a little only to slide back down. Apparently the angle is better, Sans can hear it in the way Red sighs. “Just let me fuck you up, sweetheart.”

Mission accomplished on that score. He is officially fucked up. 

Red starts to ride him, slow and thorough, like Sans is some excellent meal he’s taking his sweet time enjoying. No big rush, nowhere to go, it’s not like Sans is trying not to stroke out here. He doesn’t come, somehow, as time rolls on, holding on by his fingertips and by his pride because like hell is he going to go off like a teenager getting his first handjob just because he’s a little tired. He tries to return the favor, his fingers on Red’s sacrum, but he doesn’t know how useful he’s actually being. He has Red’s voice in his ear, all encouraging filth that isn’t quite praise, Red’s scent all around him and the faint scratch of Red’s scarred bones rubbing against his. Nobody would fuck him like this but Red, like Red’s trying to take him apart.

Finally, when he feels delirious, like the surface of his bones are burning, Sans says, “Red.” It’s not begging, quite.

Red closes his teeth around Sans’s collarbone. Gently, sweetly, just the sharp points of his teeth resting against the bone, a silent reminder. Red moves on him a little faster like he’s trying to wring the pleasure out of him, slick and hot and relentless. It’s permission, not that Sans was waiting for it, but after trying so hard not to come, his body stalls out. He needs something.

Knowing it’s a terrible idea, Sans grabs the back of Red’s neck. The collar is warm and inert under his fingers, no bristling protective magic; it recognizes him as safe, just like his own collar recognized Red. He pulls Red harder against his collarbone, laying his head back to stare dizzily at the ceiling.

A pause. Then Red bites down a little, more experimental than anything. Sans’s HP doesn’t even flinch, but it hurts. Not the constant, exhausting pain of his soul but something brighter. Sans shudders, arching under Red, but Red has him thoroughly pinned to the mattress. He’s not going anywhere unless he asks Red to stop, and that’s the last thing he wants.

Stroking Red’s spine, he scrapes up words from somewhere. His voice is fucked out. “Is that the best you’ve got? C’mon.”

Red’s cunt tightens around him. Red makes a noise between a growl and a laugh. When he bites down that time, it aches like it’s going to leave a mark, a statement of intent as clear as any collar. It’s enough. With a strangled moan, Sans comes.

“Fuck,” Red hisses, sounding as shaken as Sans feels. He shoves a hand between them, going for his clit. Sans tries to help but doesn’t get there fast enough. Red curses and comes, little aftershocks of overstimulation that make Sans twitch.

They slump there, both of them panting and trembling. Sans feels like his bones have gone liquid. Finally, Red shifts, Sans’s dick slipping out of him along with jizz that’s going to leave a hell of a stain on the mattress and their thighs. Sans grimaces. He’s gonna have to actually put sheets on the mattress to cover that up.

Red props himself up on his arms to look Sans in the face. His expression is unusually serious, setting off alarm bells in Sans’s brain way too late. Damage done. Red thumbs Sans’s collarbone, tracing the edges of the mark. They look at each other, not saying anything, but Sans hears Red loud and clear.

The mark will heal. Their lives will go back to normal, or as normal as it gets. But things have changed between them while Sans was gone and they both know it.

Red drops his eyes again, unabashedly studying Sans’s soul. It seems a little brighter. Red grins, smug and easy, and the weird little moment’s over. “There. That oughta hold you a couple days ‘til somebody heals you again.”

“Somebody,” Sans says. “You mean Edge.”

“Hey, you got options.” Red shrugs. “You’re not gonna take ‘em, but they’re there.”

It’d be nice if Red was actually wrong so Sans could get pissed at him for making assumptions. Weakly, he says, “Edge could tell me no.”

“That’s hilarious,” Red says. “It’s like you’ve never met the guy. He’ll say yes, and I’ll be there to get you real fucking high and make sure you’re feeling no pain when he lays hands on.”

Weed hadn’t occurred to Sans as a solution to that particular problem. It’s supposed to be good for pain relief, though. Some knot of quiet dread in his chest loosens a little. “You think that’ll work?”

“Better than just gritting your teeth and trying not to pass out,” Red says. “I ain’t gonna lie, you hurting like this isn’t a good sign and it complicates things, but we’ll make it work.”

Things must be completely fucked for Red to be trying to reassure him, and even more fucked for it to be working. Sans gives his shoulder a gentle shove. “Okay. Now get off me. And quit staring at my soul, I know it’s a car wreck but you’re making it weird.”

“Don’t get a fucking complex about it,” Red says. “It’s still pretty.”

Sans stares at him. Red’s not joking. Heat sears across his face. “Shut up.”

Red perks up. With malicious delight, he says, “You’re fucking blushing. Holy shit. All I had to do was tell you you’re pretty?”

No, it’s that Red said his _soul_ is pretty, the core of who he is. Nobody’s ever tried that particular line of flattery before. Pushing at Red’s shoulder again, Sans says, “I’m embarrassed for you, you narcissist. Seriously, get off. It’s like your bones are made of concrete.”

“Fine. Goddamn emotional cactus.” With a last nuzzle to Sans’s collarbone, Red rolls off of him and sprawls on the mattress beside him. There’s blue smeared all across the inside of his splayed femurs. “C’mere. You can suck it up and deal with cuddling for a couple of minutes.”

Sighing heavily, Sans shifts over so that he can curl against Red’s side, his head on Red’s chest. If Red’s arm goes to sleep, that’s his fucking problem. It’s weird how comfortable Red is despite being made of bones and a terrible personality.

Red hums contentedly. “Yeah. That’s the shit.”

“I’ll try not to judge you for your weird cuddling kink.” It is pretty nice, though. And the book said it’d be good for his soul. He’ll take any help he can get at this point. Sans yawns, exhausted from the emotional whiplash. It went way better than he expected or deserves, Red freaking out about his soul aside, but some part of him is still waiting for the moment Red remembers that Sans almost got his brother killed. “If I doze off and my phone rings--”

“I’ll answer it,” Red says. “I don’t need your bro kicking the door down and seeing my junk. I mean, it’d be one thing if he was interested but--”

“He’s not,” Sans says flatly. “He’s really, really not. Because one of us got smarts in this family and it wasn’t me.”

“Hey, don’t get pissy at me. The whole damn town showed up to offer him food like they think he’s the hottest piece of ass around--”

Sans shoves his hand over Red’s mouth. “Stop. Talking.”

Red grins at him, probably three seconds from biting Sans’s fingers off. When Sans takes his hand back, Red says, “Poor bastards. They’re barking up the wrong tree. They oughta be trying to get in _your_ pants.”

Which Sans thinks is Red trying to tell him that the shiny new mark on his collarbone didn’t change anything. He’s still a free bitch, for all that Edge gets twitchy about it and that Red was murderously angry because somebody dared to leave a bruise on him. Unfortunately, Sans is pretty sure that for the moment, he’s closed for outside business. There’s absolutely no appeal in the idea, even to make a point.

(Nobody’s going to compare anyway.)

Fuck, he’s getting boring in his old age.

When he doesn’t come back with a smartass remark, Red lets it go. His fingers pet Sans’s ribs with idle curiosity, not like he’s trying to get Sans’s motor running again (which isn’t happening right now for love nor money) but like he just wants to touch them because he can. His soul beats steadily beneath Sans’s head.

“That was pretty genius,” Sans says finally.

The petting pauses, like Red thought Sans was asleep, then continues. “What?”

“The entropy engine.”

“Don’t try to suck up. I ain’t gonna stop being angry just because you blow smoke up my ass.”

“I’m not.” Sans sits up so he can look Red in the face. “I couldn’t figure out how to compensate so it didn’t overload the machine as soon as I connected it. Had to redo the wiring a dozen times. You made it work with scraps.”

Red stares at him. Then he scoffs, embarrassed and pleased. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“I didn’t think of it in six fucking years. That solution was elegant and you know it.”

There might be a little pink brushed across Red’s cheekbones, faint enough that it could be a hallucination. “Yeah, well. You oughta talk. That thing with the photon conversion array--”

“No, dude, listen,” Sans says, “I saw your notes. You had it figured out. All you had to do was factor in the variations in the speed of dark depending on how close to the Core you are.”

“Oh, all I had to do,” Red mimics. His grin is bright and real, like the first time he saw the stars, and Sans’s soul gives a painful little squeeze in his chest. “Fuck me, I guess, it’s so damn obvious.”

Sans waves him off. “I almost missed it too but I found this Pratchett novel in the dump and he had a line about no matter how fast light travels, darkness is always there first, so it’s really not--”

“Shut up and take the compliment, Sansy,” Red says. He sits up too. “Variations in the speed of dark. Fuck. People think physics is this pure, ordered thing that operates by rules and numbers, but it ain’t like that. We understand just enough to convince ourselves that we understand everything, which is just asking for trouble.”

Sans grins. “Deep. Are you sure you’re not stoned?”

“Fuck you,” Red says without heat. “And that’s even considering that we figured out way more than the humans.”

“Okay, but you’ve got to admit that the fact that Heisenberg got as far as he did without even knowing about magic was impressive,” Sans says.

“Well, obviously,” Red says. “The guy was a fucking genius. I ain’t arguing that. But--” 

And he keeps going like he means to ramble for a while.

Sans is still tired. He’s starving and the painkiller’s wearing off, although the sex helped a lot with the pain. But it’s like Red just plugged him into an electric socket and he’s running on pure nerdery. Papyrus listens indulgently when he rambles like that, Alphys appreciates how cool it is even if it’s not her field because they’re nerds together, but Red _understands_. Red isn’t him, but they’re close enough for some kind of kinship, and Sans--

Yeah, okay. He’ll admit it in the privacy of his own head. Smug and dangerous and infuriating as Red is, Sans is glad that this asshole came crashing into his life and made things weird.

(Complicated.)

As Red carries on ranting about the fact that it’s fucking criminal that CERN won’t let a monster scientist near the Large Hadron Collider despite the fact that they’re _clearly_ light years ahead of the curve while humans are still trying to figure out how to bang rocks together to get fire, Sans runs his fingers over the tender new mark on his collarbone. It feels like being safe.


	3. Chapter 3

When Sans finally gets to the park after a bus ride that felt like a circle of hell, Edge isn’t there. It shouldn’t sting as much as it does. Edge has no reason to think he’s coming after three days without even leaving the house, and he’s ridiculously late anyway. He kept getting caught by people he knew who wanted to talk. And talk. And talk. And talk some more while he stood there with his hands in his pockets wanting nothing more than to sit the fuck down before he fell over on his face.

This feeling emotions thing is bullshit.

Sans stands there for a minute, looking at the bench. There’s still a bare patch in the grass where he parked his cart. He scuffs his toe in the dirt, thinks about taking the long, long bus trip back home without seeing Edge to make sure he’s okay versus the very important task of not being a needy asshole, and then turns and heads to the embassy.

It’s a relatively quiet day. No school tour groups, no human politicians with their uneasy human bodyguards. He called Asgore’s secretary before he came anywhere close to the embassy to be sure the king was out, doing a visit to some hospital for kids somewhere. Sans isn’t ready to deal with Asgore yet. He may never be ready to deal with looking into Asgore’s face and remembering--

Yeah. Hopefully monsters will do him a solid and just not commit any crimes worthy of official judgment for a while. Maybe a year or so. Maybe a decade. That’d be swell.

As he shuffles through the halls, keeping his head down and hoping the fact that he’s still wearing Red’s jacket serves as some kind of camouflage, Frisk comes around the corner signing furiously. Their hands stop mid-word as they catch sight of Sans, their deceptively sleepy eyes widening, and then they start towards him. By the time they crash into his arms, they're nearly running. Only gravity magic keeps Sans from falling over with the impact.

"Hey, kid," Sans says. Their grip tightens at the sound of his voice, full-on clinging now. He rumples their hair, careful not to get it caught between his bones and pull. "Jeez, it's like you missed me or something."

They make a noise that sounds ominously like a sniffle.

"Aw no," Sans says, horrified. Sometimes with Frisk's unshakable calm and the whole godlike powers thing, he forgets that they're barely eleven. He's no good with crying kids. He needs an adult. "C'mon, buddy. All this boo-hooing and people are gonna think you're a ghost."

A very familiar, very resigned voice calls out, "Human, I have told you a hundred times--"

Edge stops short when he sees Sans. Fuck, is it good to see him, unknotting some tension Sans didn't know he was carrying until it dropped away. Edge's expression softens almost imperceptibly. Sans tries his best to silently convey _holy shit, please help me deal with this._

Edge comes closer, laying one hand on Frisk's head. It's gentle. He's always gentle with them. "As we’ve discussed, Frisk, skeletons do enjoy breathing on occasion. Take it easy on him. He's all right."

Frisk lets Sans go. They back up a couple steps, wiping their face on their sleeve. They're smiling. It falters when they get a better look at him because the kid is too damn perceptive. Keeping his voice light, Sans asks, "So hey, the real important question: how’d you do on that math test?"

They give him another long few seconds of that searchlight look, like he's just one more poor sap they're determined to save when they figure out how. Then they hold their hand out and wobble it. So-so.

Damn, he would've sworn the kid had the whole fractions thing figured out. But then they were probably a little distracted on account of him and Edge disappearing into thin air. He pats the kid on the shoulder. "Eh, it's okay. We'll work it on it. Y'know, I don't usually make puns about fractions, but I'll make one if I halve two."

The kid laughs. They're a great audience. Edge manages to look both relieved and mildly pained at the same time.

"Anyway, you mind if I borrow your bodyguard here?" Sans asks. "I missed a couple days selling 'dogs and now we gotta ketchup if he can mustard up some time."

Frisk grins. _He relishes the thought._

"Nice," Sans says. He's the best influence.

With a heavy sigh, Edge says, "Just let me pass them off to Undyne for the next meeting and--"

Right on time, one of the many doors in the hallway bursts open. They must go through a lot of doors in the embassy. Like she's on her way to a duel for someone's honor, Undyne comes stomping out. "What's the hold-up this time? Did some baby ducks need herding across the road? C'mon!"

Some part of Sans was worried that the next time he saw Undyne, his brain would misfire. She's Papyrus's bestie, bro of his bro, and he's seen her first thing in the morning with her hair standing up in places and her eyepatch off. She's his friend. He doesn't want to look at her hands and think of them tight around his throat. But the universe found some tiny scrap of mercy because after a brief spark of reflexive alarm, he's okay.

Undyne stops two steps into the hallway, her eye widening. He braces for one more person freaking out about how awful he looks and asking if he's okay, but Undyne only says, "Crap. How's Papyrus?"

This is why they're friends. Because she worries about what this is doing to his brother, not him, even if his damage is more obvious. She has her priorities straight. Sans says, "Okay. He could probably use something to punch."

"So could I," Undyne says darkly, cracking her knuckles. Sans doesn't know how much Edge told her. Enough, apparently. Then she gives Edge a friendly smack on the shoulder. "Go ahead. I've got this. About time you showed up to get this nerd to take a break, Sans."

"Almost Fell Down on the job," Sans says.

Edge gives him a very sharp, very unamused look. Right. Probably a dick move to make that joke this soon, especially considering Red's whole supposed to be dead, walking foul-mouthed miracle thing.

Undyne just looks confused and suspicious, so Edge hasn't been telling anyone about that particular part of their trip. Good. Sheepishly, Sans rubs the back of his neck. "Heh. Anyway, thanks. You ready, edgelord?"

"Yes," Edge says, still giving him side-eye. "I'll show you to my office. Thank you, cap-- Undyne."

Edge hesitates like he's trying to figure out how to herd while simultaneously leading the way, then gives up and starts down the hall. Sans gives the kid a wink over his shoulder as he follows.

Edge's office is small and tucked in a corner of the building, away from most of the foot traffic. There's a desk, two chairs, a file cabinet and not much else. Sans is embarrassingly glad to get ushered into one of the chairs; he's kind of wiped out.

"Nice place," he says as Edge takes the other seat. "I didn't know you had an office."

"A new development," Edge says. He leans on the desk, taking Sans in. "I didn't expect you."

"Sorry," Sans says. "Seriously, if you're busy--"

"We have a standing appointment for lunch. I’ll make the time. Are you hungry?"

"Yeah." Before Edge can try to do an elaborate workaround that allows him to offer food without actually offering food, Sans pulls a container of casserole and a fork out of his inventory. Then he considers the pristine neatness of Edge's office. "Is it cool if I eat in here?"

"It's fine," Edge says. He doesn't move to pull out food of his own, just sits there watching intently. It’s weird.

Hunger wins out over awkwardness. Sans starts eating. The casserole, room temperature or not, is excellent. Toriel crammed enough intent and affection in there that it's almost heady. He thinks Edge relaxes a little, watching him eat, reassured by it somehow.

"You look better," Edge says.

"Thanks. Everybody else I've run into today looks at me like a three-legged puppy with mange."

"They didn't see you while you were dying," Edge says. "My standards are lower. Still, I'm glad. I was... concerned."

Sans thinks maybe it was less 'concerned' and more 'totally freaking out'. No wonder. The last time Edge saw him, he'd almost died twice (three times, counting the soul thing) and was shocky as hell. It's been two days of radio silence aside from mild, uninformative texts. At least Red coming back with info after he fucked Sans through the mattress must’ve helped.

It's probably weird that Sans is starting to think of that as a normal method of communication.

"How about you?" Sans asks. "Red said you were banged up." 

Which he hadn't noticed because he'd been too damn worried about himself like a self-absorbed asshole. He can't heal but he could've wrapped Edge’s ribs or something. Applied ice packs. Worried a lot.

Edge grimaces. "My brother talks too much."

"Really? I never noticed.”

"It's only bruises. They've mostly healed by now." Edge is still watching Sans. That continues to be a thing that’s happening. "You look like you're in pain."

There's really not much point denying it, but Sans's first reflex is to lie. He shrugs instead. "It's not bad if I don't push it."

Of course, considering that his first trip outside was taking the bus across town and walking half a mile to the embassy and he's gonna have to do the same in reverse to get home and nap, he really should've brought the painkillers.

Edge's eyes narrow like he somehow heard the part that Sans didn't say out loud. "Is it your soul?"

Reluctantly, Sans puts the fork down. He's not gonna get a better opening than this and he probably shouldn't approach such a delicate topic while putting food in his face. "Yeah. Listen, speaking of, it was a really bad scene over there. Kind of a life or death situation. If you hadn't helped me, I would've kicked it."

Edge sits back in his chair, arms crossed. His expression is suddenly guarded. "I was hardly going to let you die."

"No, I know," Sans says. "But I don't know if you... I mean, that was over there and--"

Fuck. He can talk his way out of 99% of situations. He literally talked a guy to death three days ago. This shouldn't be this hard. It's just that when it comes to asking for help, the words tangle up in his mouth until he chokes. Last time, he could peel his shirts off and let Edge take over from there, but this is different.

Sans drums his fingers restlessly on the table. Some part of him hopes that Edge will figure out what he’s trying to ask and put him out of his misery one way or the other, but Edge just waits him out.

“I need somebody to keep fixing my soul,” Sans says finally. “It’s not, uh, done yet. So. If it was a one-time thing, I get it and I’ll figure something out, it’s cool--”

“Breathe,” Edge says, mercifully cutting him off. “If you hadn’t asked, I was going to offer. I wasn’t sure if you’d welcome it now that you have other choices.”

None that he likes. None that he knows for sure won’t be horrified by the contents of his skull. Edge took care of him. He can trust Edge. And judging from Edge’s expression, it’s a genuine offer, not something that he’s forcing himself to do out of obligation and guilt. That’s a weight off Sans’s shoulders. “Okay. Thanks.”

A shadow crosses Edge’s face. He glances away at a wall, clearly turning some unpleasant thought over in his head, then sighs. “There’s something you should know first before you decide.”

Kind of hard to say _I already know about your hardcore crush and all the murders you did, dude,_ without embarrassing them both. If Edge wants to actually discuss the thing where he’s not only warm for Sans’s form but has genuine emotions tied up in it for reasons Sans can’t comprehend, he might risk a shortcut to escape the crippling awkwardness. (Okay, he won’t, but he’ll be sorely tempted.) “Lay it on me.”

“Do you remember what happened afterwards?” Before Sans can worry that he’s talking about the cuddling, Edge clarifies, “You felt strange. Disoriented and fuzzy. You weren’t entirely coherent.”

“I remember.” Sans remembers that it was embarrassing as fuck the next morning. He hadn’t quite been able to meet Edge’s eyes, grateful for the convenient distraction of the machine. “You said Red had that too. What about it?”

“Do you know anything about subspace?” Edge asks.

Sans didn’t fuck around with kink, but as a consequence of slutting around with plenty of sexually adventurous people in college and now Papyrus dipping his toe into the scene, he knows a little of the lingo even if he doesn’t really get the nuances, like picking up phrases in an unfamiliar country. He knows about subspace. He even knows that it’s not necessarily sexual, just a consequence of endorphins and intense emotion. A high that people chase. And Edge got him there. He let go of control.

“Um,” Sans says, averting his eyes. His face feels hot. “Yeah, I know. I guess I wasn’t… yeah. Sorry.”

Dead silence from Edge’s side of the table. Then, sounding somewhere between amused and appalled, Edge asks, “Are you trying to apologize for going into subspace?”

Not very well, apparently. Sans scratches his cheek, his eyes firmly locked on the desk. Like hell is he making eye contact for this. “Yeah. My bad. You were just trying to keep me from dying and I made it weird. It won’t happen again.”

More silence. Then the chair creaks as Edge sits forward, leaning his elbows on the desk. Gently, he says, “You don’t have anything to apologize for. I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for that to happen but I should have expected it, considering my brother’s reactions and how hard I was pushing you.”

“You couldn’t exactly do it slow while I was bleeding to death.”

“And perhaps the fact that you were dying means you should cut yourself a bit of slack for not keeping perfect composure.” Edge reaches across the table, his hand coming to rest briefly on Sans’s closed fist. It’s the first time Edge has touched him since he left Sans in the cellar, and it’s nice. Comforting. It quiets something in Sans’s head. “Do you think any differently of my brother for having gone into subspace? Do you respect him any less?”

It’d be really easy to toss off a joke about not respecting Red in the first place. But for all Red’s many, many faults, he’s a tough bastard. It’s fine for Red. “No. It’d get back to him somehow and he’d shank me in my sleep.”

“I think he finds you too interesting for that,” Edge says. Sans snorts, some of the tightness in his soul easing. “Don’t apologize. I only wanted you to know before you made any decisions.”

Yeah. It’s a damned good reason to find somebody else. That complicates things, considering Edge’s misguided feelings for him. The trouble is that it comes back around to Sans not trusting anybody else to get inside his head. He’ll just have to be careful, that’s all. Now that he knows it’s a possibility, he knows to try harder to keep it together.

(Sure. While he’s completely toked the fuck up. If he thought he could convince Edge to do it without anything for the pain...)

(Fuck it. He’s made worse decisions for worse reasons.)

Sans meets Edge’s eyes and grins like he’s not sweating it at all. “Nah, it’s fine. Just be gentle with me, edgelord.”

“I’m trying,” Edge says. 

The genuine warmth in his gaze makes Sans want to squirm. He picks up his fork and starts eating again. Hopefully that’ll forestall any serious conversation. “When do you want to do it?”

Unlike Red, Edge lets the unintentional double entendre pass without comment. “Tonight or tomorrow unless you have objections.”

Considering that riding the bus and an awkward conversation has worn Sans the fuck out, he’s not going to work again tonight. Still, that seems soon. Very soon. Unnervingly soon. “That fast?”

“You’re hurting badly enough to actually admit it,” Edge points out. “Did my brother give you the painkillers? If I’m going to touch your soul--”

“Red said I could just get really fucked up on weed,” Sans says.

“Ah.” Another one of Edge’s almost smiles. “Of course he’d come up with that solution.”

“Yeah,” Sans says. Then he realizes how fond he sounds and clears his throat. “Is that gonna be a problem? Can you work with that?”

“Better than I can work with you screaming in pain,” Edge says.

“Nah, I’d pass out first,” Sans says. Two seconds too late, he remembers that that’s not the kind of thing most people can say with any certainty because most people don’t have practical experience. Edge is staring at him, his eyes keen, expression so much like Red it’s eerie. “Heh. I assume, anyway. But then I guess everybody thinks they’re the stoic type until the pain really starts, huh?”

“I don’t imagine most people here have given it that much thought,” Edge says.

“No, I guess not.” With unnecessary force, Sans stabs the last of the food. His words are a little too casual. “I had a lot of time to think about torture when we were in your universe. Y’know, in case we got caught. I was worried about the wrong things, it turned out. Anyway. Doesn’t matter. How’s tomorrow? Gotta say I’m kinda tired out from all this excitement.”

That sharp look softens a little. “You look it. It’s normal. My brother was hungry and exhausted for weeks after… when he was first healing.”

“After he Fell,” Sans says just before popping the last bite of food and finishing it off.

That makes Edge stare at him again. “He told you?”

“It came up.” Sans can imagine why Red keeps it quiet; coming back from the dead is the kind of thing that results in either pitchforks or cults. “He reamed me out and then gave me the basic ‘my soul is completely fucked, ask me how’ rundown.”

He decides to leave out the part where Red mentioned that on top of being hungry and tired, he’d been incredibly horny for the first few weeks. Apparently Red hadn’t been fucking Edge back then, so Sans got a brief review of all the inappropriate places where Red jerked off. Hopefully that whole horny thing was just a side effect of Red being, well, Red.

“That’s unexpectedly helpful of him,” Edge says.

Sans shrugs, shoving the now empty container back in his inventory. “I thought it was suspicious too, but I figured maybe he had a head injury.”

“That must be it.” Edge’s sarcasm is dry enough to wither fruit on the vine. When Sans just grins blandly back because like hell is he engaging with the idea that Red might’ve been trying to be nice to him, Edge shakes his head, glancing at the clock on the wall. Reluctantly, he says, “I should get back. Do you want me to drive you home?”

Fuck, yes, Sans really does. He thinks if he runs into one more acquaintance and has to have one more well-meaning conversation about how is he doing, no, how is he _really_ doing, he’s going to snap. They don’t deserve that. People are worried and they’re trying to be kind. It’s not their fault he’s like this.

Funny how Edge’s sympathy doesn’t rub him the wrong way.

Sans gives in semi-gracefully. “Yeah, if you’re offering. Thanks. I’m having bubblegum pop deficiency.”

Edge gives him a look, gauging if Sans is mocking him. Then his mouth curves. When Sans stands, Edge’s hand comes to rest gently on his shoulder. “I can help you with that, as it turns out.”

“Yeah,” Sans says, craning his head back to grin at Edge. “I figured you could.”

***

It shouldn’t be possible to fail at sleep but damned if Sans isn’t managing it.

He can close his eyes but every noise from outside, even the familiar sound of Papyrus moving around the house, jerks him out of sleep. Each time he’s jolted back, it gets harder to relax until restlessness seethes in his marrow, his nervous system primed like an over-sensitive smoke alarm. When he closes his eyes, he can feel the nightmares waiting like shadows being cast over his bed. He lays there resenting the existence of consciousness, unconsciousness, and everything that isn’t Papyrus.

He’s about to admit defeat and slink back to the couch and Papyrus for another night of using his brother like some kind of sad comfort object, like a little kid using a blankie because they’re scared of the dark, when the thought occurs to him.

Comfort object. Well. No blankies, no, but he has something in his inventory. It brought him comfort before. Hell, it managed to bring him comfort over there, so here, in this safe little room in his safe little neighborhood with nobody trying to kill him, shouldn’t it work even better?

… what the fuck. No. No way is he opening that door. It’s one thing to let Edge fix his soul, one thing not to give the collar back, but he’s not _clingy_ \--

Except he’s using Papyrus to help him get a little sleep at night. That’s not exactly functional. Isn’t it better for him to switch from clinging to a person to an object?

No. It’s not happening. Fuck that. He’s safe here. He doesn’t need it.

Red’s still wearing it, though. The collar. He doesn’t need it to warn people off anymore, but he keeps it on because he wants to. Because it means something to him and to Edge.

Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? It means something to Edge.

Edge doesn’t have to know. Nobody has to know.

Sans would know.

Yeah, but it’s not like the fact that he’s fucked up is coming as a surprise to himself, is it.

It’s been barely three days since he got back. Maybe… maybe it’s okay if he does it for tonight. One night of decent sleep in his own bed. Once he’s cleared that hurdle and gotten healed again, he’ll feel better. He’ll be able to handle it with a clear head and without any crutch. Hell, he doesn’t even have to put the thing on. If he touches it, holds it in his hand, it’ll shut up his panicky parasympathetic nervous system enough to calm down. One good night without nightmares--

He’s not even arguing with himself anymore. The angel and the devil on his shoulders are totally agreed on the subject of this terrible, terrible idea.

One good night without nightmares. He’ll be okay after that. Then he’ll put the collar in the bottom of a box in his closet, buried under a bunch of stuff where he won’t be tempted. It worked when he quit smoking for a while.

Yeah, right. He totally believes in his own willpower. It’s never failed him before.

Fuck, he’s tired. He’s tired and in pain and he’s _weak_ \--

And the collar is out of his inventory, resting in his hand. It’s like a living creature, warm and soft, curled around his fingers. It whispers protection, loyalty, tenderness (and well, doesn’t that add up to something Sans isn’t going to name). It feels like falling asleep with his head on Edge’s shoulder. It feels like somebody having his back. Which is ridiculous, he knows Papyrus has his back and wouldn’t let anything happen to him, he knows there’s no concrete threat to be even afraid of anymore with Unundyne in another universe, but…

But his soul is beating easier. But he can feel himself calming down breath by breath, losing that edge (ha) of panic. He’s okay.

It’s just for tonight. That’s all.

Sleep comes down on him like a guillotine falling, that fast and that clean. It finds him with the collar clutched in his hand, surrounded by the scent of Red still in his sheets. He sleeps like a baby.

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: Sans being in physical pain and a bad headspace post-Underfell, discussion of past child medical abuse, mention of past gaslighting and emotional abuse, Sans taking mild painkillers (Underfell pain relief comes in 'knock you out so someone can stitch your guts back in' or 'barely better than over the counter' with nothing in between), Red and Sans's dysfunctional relationship, discussion of marijuana use and soultouching under the influence


End file.
